Love They Neighbor
by hermionesmydawg
Summary: [AU, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers] Bucky Barnes has a few problems with his new neighbor: 1. He's hot. 2. He's loud. 3. He might be a secret superhero.


**i.** **  
**

_Tap._ _  
_ _  
_ _Scratch._ _  
_ _  
_ _Tap tap tap._ _  
_ _  
_ _Thud._ _  
_ _  
_ _Crash._ _  
_  
What in tarnation?

"Huh?" Bucky blinks. Spongebob Squarepants is playing on the television. Sandy is confused. Why wouldn't she be? Bucky's confused, too.

He fumbles for the remote and shuts the TV off, bringing blessed darkness back to his room. The clock says 1:07 a.m. Plenty more time to sleep this off.

Tequila is bad.

 _Thump._ _  
_ _  
_ _Thud._ _  
_ _  
_ _Crash boom._

What the actual fuck?

"What the actual fuck?" Bucky roars, sitting up in bed with a start. The room is spinning. Tequila is fucking bad as shit, it's 3:46 in the morning, and -

 _Thud._ _  
_  
There it is again, that noise, coming from behind his headboard. So at least he's not crazy. Okay, well, at least he's not hearing things. Deciding to try to be social on the last night of his seven days off, only to end up doing tequila shots and making out with some rando dude that was cute until he pawed at his arm and said, "Whoa, bro," that...that's not really anything to brag about in relation to mental awesomeness.

 _Thump._ _  
_  
He whines, "Whyyyyyy," and tugs at his long brown hair until it hurts more than the headache brewing behind his eyeballs. His shift starts at six, plus the hour commute, so his alarm is set to go off in around forty-five minutes. Goddammit. He's a halfway decent human being at least sixty percent of the time, he does not deserve this shit.

 _Thump._ _  
_  
The noise is coming from the other side of the wall, and no, that's not the title of some lame horror book he read this week instead of going out and socializing like he should have.

The book was _The Noise Inside the Wall_. No shock there, the noise was a ghost.

This. This isn't a ghost, this is worse. It's human.

A new neighbor.

 _Thunk._ _  
_  
Who is apparently assembling an entire Ikea showroom in the middle of the fucking night.

Bucky bangs on the wall behind him. "Yo, go the fuck to bed, asshole!"

In hindsight, calling his new neighbor an asshole right off the bat probably wasn't wise, but this is Brooklyn - if you can't handle being called out, you'll never survive. The ruckus quiets down, and Bucky drifts back into a restless sleep, dreaming about running the wrong way on a conveyor belt, because that's just his luck.

 _Crash!_ _  
_  
He jolts out of bed and grabs the lamp on the nightstand as a weapon. His legs wiggle and wave below him, still trying to catch up to whatever dream!Bucky was chasing. There is literal hammering going on next door.

This shit just got personal.

Bucky throws a shirt on and storms out his front door, lamp in one hand and a balled fist in the other. If Asshole Neighbor can bang, well, so can he. He slams his fist repeatedly against the solid oak door adjacent to his own, not relenting until the only thing left to punch is air. Then he waves the lamp angrily in the face of his very new, very huge neighbor.

The Asshole is hot, with a neat beard but messy blond hair, a chest broad enough to drive a semi-truck over, and biceps that could choke the life out of him. Fucking typical.

The Asshole is obviously very amused. Bucky hates him already.

The guy smirks like he knows it. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Bucky sneers. Lamp. In face. If Bucky can't see how pretty he is it'll be easier to yell. Except it isn't. His scream catches in his throat, strangling him from within. Fuck this guy. He's still smirking, probably because he's being threatened with a lamp shaped like a girl wearing a hula skirt by a less than sober man in pajamas.

Fuck. This. Guy.

(Please.)

"Keep it down," Bucky manages to growl despite literally choking on shame and self-loathing. "Some of us have to work around here."

Asshole blinks slowly. "I'm terribly sorry," he says, but it's sarcastic, he's _fucking sarcastic_.

Bucky frowns. Wiggles the lamp. Tassels fly. "No, you're not."

Asshole crosses his heart. "It'll never happen again."

"Argh!" Even on Bucky's worst day - which, might actually be today - he doesn't deserve this. He pulls the lamp to his chest and storms back into the warm safety of his apartment, slamming the door as obnoxiously as possible behind him.

He's cold and pissed and the extra sleep he needs is probably not gonna happen. With an overdramatic sigh, just to make himself feel better, Bucky trudges back to his bedroom, replaces the lamp, and heads to the bathroom for a shower. Why is he so cold? Obviously he's getting too old for drinking. And bars. And people.

Bucky tugs his shirt over his head and reaches for his pants. Except, he's not wearing pants. Only briefs.

Iron Man briefs.

Life. _Life_ is bad.

That cold feeling doesn't really go away for the rest of the day. Bucky spills coffee - hot coffee - on the crotch of his jeans on the subway, and neither the warm sensation nor the cool dampness afterwards is pleasant. The twelve hour shift in the SICU of Metro-General Hospital flies by quickly, but having to wear scrubs home instead of real pants does little to protect his goods from brisk October winds. But it's fine. He's fine.

One work day down, six more to go. 

**ii.** **  
**

Bucky's pretty sure he wasn't always this introverted, but the sight of his apartment building almost brings tears to his eyes. He just wants his bed and his Playstation and Netflix and Thai food. And sleep of course, provided the Douche Next Door - not a book title, but it should be - doesn't attempt to construct a fort or a Barbie playhouse at some ungodly hour.

He reaches into his pocket for his keys, only to remember they're still in the coffee stained jeans in his messenger bag. Of course, Asshole walks out of his apartment just as Bucky stretches his visibly soiled pants across his body to retrieve his keys. It's okay, though. He's cool, nodding politely to his neighbor. "Noisy asshole," he not-so-politely greets him.

Douche Next Door performs a head to toe scan of Bucky's body, squinting ever so slightly before returning the nod. "Iron Man Underoos."

Seriously though, the hot ones are the worst. DND locks his apartment, zips his black hoodie up to chin, and strolls away without another word. Bucky checks out his ass as he leaves because he's a goddamn human and can't help himself. A little on the small side, and his black utility pants aren't terribly fashionable, but all in all he gives the booty a B plus.

The arms, though. A fucking plus plus plus.

After finally functioning as an adult well enough to find his keys and open his door, Bucky strips, puts on actual pajamas, and starts a load of laundry before settling in with his Masaman curry. He'll be forever grateful to his great aunt and uncle for not only allowing him to take over the lease on their amazing rent-controlled corner apartment, but for also leaving him most of their appliances and half the furniture. Hula lamp included.

He's balls deep in season three of Sense8 and fading in and out of consciousness when a knock on the door brings him back to reality. It's almost ten o'clock, making him think the offender is probably just a floor mate with a sick kid wondering which medications are safe to give little Timmy with a fever.

When you're a nurse, you're never actually off-duty.

Bucky looks through his peephole, but he doesn't know his visitor. He's pretty, though - tall, dark, and handsome. Carries himself like a soldier. While Bucky's ogling, the mystery hottie checks his phone and grumbles to himself, shifting over to Asshole's door and knocking.

Ain't that a fucking bitch.

The knocks turn to bangs and Bucky's a little distracted because Hottie has an ass that won't quit. He's staring. He's a socially awkward human being and needs to make some serious life changes.

"Steve!" Hottie yells once before dropping his hand with a sigh.

So the asshole has a name. Steve. And a friend. Or boyfriend. Hmm.

Bucky's torn between continuing to be a creeper or actually, ya know, _talking_ to someone. He opens the door slightly, just enough to catch Hottie's attention as he grumbles something under his breath about going off the grid. "Problem?" Bucky asks.

The guy jumps back, immediately apologizing. "Sorry. If I woke you, I mean."

Opening the door all the way, Bucky purposely leans his left shoulder against the door frame to obscure his arm from sight. Hottie does the same thing Assho - _Steve_ \- did, scanning Bucky from top to bottom. He seems a tad disappointed that the pants-less wonder is actually fully clothed today. Obviously this guy has heard about the lamp encounter. "No problem," Bucky says. "Your boyfriend isn't home, I would hear him building the Trojan Horse in there if he was."

Hottie laughs. He has a gap in his front teeth. Precious. "Ah yeah, my _friend_ , he...he's a little like a bull in a china shop at times."

"Noticed." Bucky smiles. "Well, if I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Uh huh." Hottie narrows his eyes. "If you see him, then, tell him Sam says don't do anything stupid until I get back."

Bucky has a feeling maybe this Steve guy does stupid shit pretty often. "Will do. Nice to meet you, Sam."

Sam extends his hand and Bucky awkwardly shakes it. "Likewise, um..."

"Sorry." Bucky drops Sam's hand. "Bu - James," he corrects himself, because honestly, who as an adult still has a nickname like Bucky?

"Ah, well, have a nice night, Bujames." Sam winks and backs away toward the stairwell.

Dammit.

***

Steve the asshole is surprisingly quiet when he comes home that night, whenever the hell that is. It's not like Bucky cares, because he's sleeping and is certainly not his neighbor's keeper. He almost feels bad for knocking on Steve's door at 5:00 the next morning with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Almost.

It takes Steve over two minutes to come to the door, but it is well worth the wait. He's sleepy and half naked, only wearing a pair of black running pants. The dude looks a little roughed up, actually. Bucky hates that it makes him even hotter.

Also, he's going to have nightmares about Steve's pectorals.

Instead of gawking like an idiot, Bucky smiles widely. "Oh I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

Steve stares incredulously with sleepy blue eyes.

"Your friend Sam stopped by last night. Said to tell you not to do anything stupid until he gets back," Bucky continues. "Just wanted you to get the message."

Steve's nostrils flare. Then he slams the door in Bucky's face. Bucky's grin grows even bigger.

It's going to be a good day. 

**iii.** **  
**

The next day...not a good day.

Maybe he got overconfident. Maybe he's a jackass. Maybe he misses the night shift, or way before that, the NICU. He's not ashamed to admit that he loves babies, loves saving babies. More so than adults, for sure. His particular niche in nursing has always been the complicated dance between too much and not enough, and helping those helpless to do it themselves. That's why he'll always work intensive care units if he has a choice.

Having a bionic arm though, that lends itself more towards manipulation of dead weight than delicately tiny humans. This is just the hand he's been dealt, literally, so yeah. Whatever.

"You're thinking about babies," a pretty voice says from over the counter of the nurse's station.

Bucky smiles, realizing he'd been staring at Ms. Rosenthal's medication schedule for far too long. "I like babies," he responds, twirling around in his chair. "And you don't know me, Claire. Not even like, a little bit."

"Whatever." Claire Temple - former night-shift-er, current nurse to the world's bravest and mightiest, and overall awesome lady - rolls her eyes. "You're on days now? How conventional."

"Yeah, well, adulting and shit." Bucky shrugs. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence today?"

"Visiting. Considering coming back as PRN when I'm in town. Sometimes I miss normal people."

"Normal people are overrated." Bucky holds up his left arm with a grin. "I'm about due for a break, can you lunch?"

Claire makes a face. "As long as I don't have to eat."

The cafeteria's not _that_ bad. It...could be worse.

"So what's new in the world of the enhanced and sometimes heroic?" Bucky asks, taking a bite of wilted salad. "Other than Stark retiring for the five hundredth time."

"Today makes five hundred and one," she jokes. "I've heard rumblings of a new guy in town. Your neck of the woods."

Bucky chokes. "Brooklyn? What's he doing, handing out egg creams and protesting the new Outback Steakhouse?"

"Aren't _you_ protesting the Outback Steakhouse?"

"Brooklyn doesn't do chains! Local or bust." Bucky smirks but it's the damn truth.

Claire just leans back in her chair, shoving her hands in the pocket of her oversized jacket. "Word has it he's fast. Strong. Dresses in black, patrols at night so no one's gotten a good look at him."

"Daredevil 2.0?"

Claire's eyes lose focus, like she's seeing something Bucky doesn't, but she comes right back to him. "God, I hope not. They've been calling him the Nomad."

Bucky rolls his eyes. Vigilantes and their fucking code names. "Well, I guess he'll be moving on to greener pastures soon, then. Wouldn't want the Bronx to get jealous because they don't have their own caped crusader."

"These guys rarely wear capes. Safety hazard." Claire punches him in the arm, the left one, because she's cool enough to be unfazed by what makes him different.

Bucky likes Claire. Misses her. Knows she has way more important things to be doing other than watching him eat. "I gotta get back to work. Don't be a stranger, 'kay?"

"Yeah, okay. I got a few more rounds to make anyway," she says, pushing herself up from the table. "If I leave without saying hey to Norma she'll kill me."

Smart plan. Even Captain America couldn't protect her against Norma.

 _Kathunk._

Bucky yawns. He was only half asleep, anyway. After a peaceful night before, he should have anticipated a rough one from Steve tonight.

 _Kathunk._

Definitely a boot, probably kicked off a foot against the wall before tumbling to the hardwood floor below. Bucky scratches his balls, thinking huh, still better than hammering.

 _Jingle clank._

Belt hitting floor. Maybe still looped through pants. Bucky's picturing Steve without pants, abort abort, this is not good.

Maybe it's a little good.

 _Moan._ _  
_  
Wait, what? That was a painful moan, definitely. Like, when you stretch and shit pops all up and down your back. Getting old sucks.

 _Squeaky squeak._

Shit, a person plopping on a bed. Bucky's walls are way too fucking thin, he should not be able to hear all of this. Was his last neighbor this loud? No. No way.

 _Moan._

Maybe if aliens attack right now, Bucky won't have to hear this. It's bad enough that he woke up half hard anyway, because _biology_. He can't listen to his hot asshole neighbor have sex when it's been a really _fucking_ long time since he has had anybody in his own bed.

He contemplates banging on the wall, but considering last time, it'd probably just make Steve louder. All of these thoughts are fucking with his head. Seriously.

 _Thud._

Bucky jolts upright. That was right behind his head. Fuck. He palms his dick through his pants, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as possible. He doesn't want to picture what Steve's doing to make his headboard bang against their shared wall, and yet - he's one hundred percent imagining it.

Steve being ridden by some hot brunette, his hands on her tits and her hand muffling his mouth because heaven forbid the neighbors hear him screaming. Picturing Steve as a Straight helps quell any expectations of Bucky ever being the one to fuck the daylights out of him.

 _Thud._ _  
_  
God. Shit. Now Bucky's imagining that he's the hot brunet, hate-fucking him so hard that his eyes are watering, his muffled moans trapped in his mouth because of course Bucky won't let him make a sound, just. _Shut the fuck up, Steve._

 _Moan._ _  
_  
Fuck it. Bucky whines softly, shoving his bionic hand down his pants. He'll deny it till his last breath, but the smooth metal is really good for one goddamn thing. It makes dissociating easy, because he feels things but not like... _before_. It can be someone else stroking his cock, a stranger that doesn't even care about how utterly fucked he is squeezing his balls, spreading his ass with their fingers.

 _Absurdly loud gasp._

Bucky comes over his fist, flesh fingers in his mouth to muffle any sound because if he can hear Steve, then Steve can hear him. But it's quiet now, nothing but his own breath and the street sounds below. And in the quiet, he sleeps. 

**iv.** **  
**

Bucky goes for an early run before work. But no Steve in the morning.

He gets home at a decent hour, because today's shift is only eight hours instead of twelve. But no Steve in the afternoon.

No Steve at all, anywhere, until Bucky drags his tired ass out of his apartment to throw all his trash away. Steve's heading out even though it's almost 10:30. Is this what it's like to have a life? Seems exhausting.

Steve nods without eye contact. "Hello."

They're almost polite now. Such progress. Bucky takes in Steve's clothes - all black again, _seriously_ , guy - and attempts to go a step further. "Hot date again?"

"Again?" Steve furrows his brow.

"Yeah, last night..." Bucky trails off. He's tired. He's an idiot. He should not engage in conversation under these circumstances because hello, now he's just let it slip that he was listening to his neighbor's private sexy time.

Steve cocks his head. He looks like a scruffy puppy. "I was alone last night."

"Oh." That's Bucky's mouth. An actual O.

"And so were you," Steve adds with a knowing smirk. "Sweet dreams, Bujames."

"Oh," Bucky says again. Because what the fuck. Oh _God_. He can't even get mad about the stupid name thing because - _because_ \- holy shit.

Steve not only heard him, but is apparently okay with Bucky totally creeping on him. How. Why. What. How?!

Bucky goes inside, crawling in bed immediately. "This is really fucked up," he mutters, but proceeds to obsess over this grand revelation anyway.

Not like Steve can hear him _this_ time. 

**v.** **  
**

Some people say that seven on/seven off schedules for nurses are bad. That it wears people down, affects their ability to work and function.

Those people are correct as fuck, by the way.

Bucky is dragging. He's over the hump but he's still got 24 hours of barking doctors and stressed out families and patients that - thankfully - don't talk back too much. Next week, though. He's gonna sleep for 24 hours straight and then play video games for the next 24 hours straight. Because he's a fucking adult, obviously.

At least he makes himself go to the gym after work today. He might not be as lean as he was before the incident but he's stronger now, bulkier. Helps to balance and coordinate with the inorganic elements of his body.

Without intending to, he falls asleep on his couch watching some new show that clearly wasn't entertaining enough to hold his attention. He assumes that his neighbor's noisy ass is building a nuclear bomb or something and that's what wakes him up at a quarter till midnight, but no. It's a light rapping on his door.

Maybe Sam has returned to see Bujames again. Fuck, now he's even calling himself that.

Bucky checks the peephole but doesn't see anyone. Instinct or whatever makes him open the door, because it could be a kid or something. Or hell, it could be a robber and this could end up as just one other notch on his bedpost of bad luck. He smooths his messy hair as best as he can and peers into the hall.

It's not a kid or a robber. It's Steve. For some reason, Bucky still allows himself to be surprised by things that really shouldn't. At this point, he and Steve might as well be goddamn roommates.

"I, uh," Steve stammers, sliding into full view. He'd positioned himself in one of the few blind spots on the hall. Weird guy, this one. "I thought maybe if you saw it was me you wouldn't answer."

Bucky's eyes travel to Steve's waist. He has a hand tucked in his jacket, holding tight onto his side. "Yeah, well. You don't know me very well."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'm really not as much of a jerk as I seem." Steve grimaces. "Not saying I'm not a jerk, I am, but I'm not usually _rude_. The super told me my neighbor worked the late night shift so I didn't expect to uh, disturb anyone the night I moved in. But then you called me an asshole, and honestly I'm petty as hell, so yeah. Sorry."

Bucky sighs. He really needs Steve to keep normal hours. "It's fine, okay? I was working night shift until recently. My doc -"

Said working days might help with depression and anxiety? Don't tell strangers all your business, James, she would say. Privacy is valuable in a time when everything is public.

"Anyway." Bucky tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, right-handed. "Why are you apologizing, like...now?"

In the middle of the night. Again with the middle of the night, Steven.

"Right, ah." Steve clears his throat, grimacing again. "I saw you in scrubs the other day. Are you a doctor?"

"Nurse," Bucky answers tersely.

"Even better," Steve says. Then he's just walking into Bucky's apartment, like he was invited in? Seriously? But once Bucky closes the door behind him, Steve pulls his hand out of his jacket, completely covered in blood.

Bucky's not so sleepy anymore. "What the fuck happened to you?!"

"I got shot," Steve says casually. Like this happens on the regular.

"Then you need to A, call the cops, and B, go to the damn hospital!"

Steve shakes his head. "No, and no. It's not severe, I just-"

"Need to go to the hospital is the only acceptable end to that sentence," Bucky snaps.

Steve ignores him. "Need you to make sure there's no fragments. It's a through and through and I'll heal faster if there's no remnants."

Bucky just...he's just...staring at Steve. His neighbor, who dresses all in black and stays out all night, who answers the door looking beat up and gets shot for no reason, his neighbor in fucking _Brooklyn_. He drops his face into his palm, groaning, "Oh God. Why."

"Why what?"

Why is this my life? Bucky thinks. He grumbles, "Why is my neighbor the Nomad?"

Steve shrugs weakly. "I like the area?"

Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck._ "Fuck," Bucky hisses, storming off to his bathroom. He twists his hair into a bun at the crown of his head and begins his search. Like most medical professionals do, he has a stash of first aid supplies ten times better than your average Joe. He gathers a handful of this, that, and everything, along with a urine basin and an old cotton blanket from his closet. "Fuck," he mutters again as he returns to Steve. "I need to undress you."

Steve quirks an eyebrow. He's really far too sassy to have just been shot.

Bucky grumbles as he helps Steve out of his jacket. "Every goddamn borough's gotta have a superhero these days. You couldn't have picked Long Island? I hear it's a hotbed for rigged peewee soccer games. And what the hell are you wearing? Why do you have cleavage?"

Honestly, though. The jacket truly made Steve's outfit, because underneath he looks like a damn ice dancer or something. His black pants are basically skinny cargos and his smedium tee shirt is showing so much titty he'd be censored on any basic cable channel.

"It's a v-neck," Steve says, glaring at Bucky as he checks his pulse. 46 beats per minute. How the fuck? Mostly healthy people that _haven't_ been shot can only dream of having a resting heart rate that good.

"From where, Limited Too?" Bucky carefully rolls up the side of Steve's shirt, inspecting the damage. Steve was right, straight through the flesh. Lucky bastard.

"You're hilarious."

"I know. Lie flat on your back." Bucky spreads the blanket on floor and drags a chair from his kitchen table over. "Feet in the chair."

"Bossy, too." Even with the unnecessary commentary, Steve does as he's told. Bucky wraps the blanket over the uninjured half of his body and pulls on some nitrile gloves before retrieving a large syringe filled with sterile saline. "Hey, whoa there."

"Easy, big guy." Bucky smirks and twists the needle off the syringe. "I just gotta flush it."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Okay." It's not often that Bucky has a patient that can carry on a conversation. Sometimes it's a good thing, helps to distract from what's going on with their bodies. "So what's up with the local unauthorized crime-fighting? You got a superhero fetish or something?"

Steve rolls his head to watch Bucky. "Says the guy with Iron Man underwear."

"It's not like I bought them, damn. He gave them to me. Possibly as a joke, but free underwear is free underwear." With the wound a little cleaner now, Bucky sees the fragments Steve was worried about. How did he even know they were there?

"You know Iron Man?" Steve asks with a definite air of forced casualness.

Bucky peels open a pair of sterile forceps. "No. I know Tony Stark. He gave me this," he holds his left arm up awkwardly, "basically. Reparations I guess, or maybe he's actually just a good guy under that annoying exterior. S'not like I have him on speed dial or anything."

Steve gulps, staring at Bucky's arm. "Reparations?"

 _Clink_. One fragment into the basin. "New experiments in medical technology. A select few were chosen that had lost limbs in the incident. You know. The Chitauri attack."

"Yeah. I uh, remember that day pretty clearly."

Steve's face is flushing, Bucky notices. "Shit, I didn't even give you anything for pain, I'm sorry. I got -"

"I'm fine, keep going. And talking. So, what, did Stark save you that day?"

"Umm." The lack of fresh blood from the wound is freaking Bucky out just a little bit. He's starting to realize maybe Steve isn't quite normal. He's seen enhanced individuals before, and this Nomad dude sure fits the bill. "What? No. I was off that day and in the city when it happened. Can't just stand by while people are hurt, ya know? Part of a building fell on me while performing CPR on somebody."

So much for not telling strangers all of his business. Bucky feels a little sick, so he sits back on his heels and takes a deep breath. Exhale, another. Repeat. "It was the new Captain America, not Stark. Pulled a slab of concrete off me like it was nothing. Lost the arm but he saved my life."

Bucky gets back to working on another bullet shard and Steve closes his eyes, blowing out a deep puff of air. "What do you mean, the new Captain America?"

"Oh please." _Clink_. Another piece out. "I believe in superheroes, but I also believe in conspiracies and the government's ability to lie at will. I've had to hear stories my whole life about how Cap died in the Arctic. People don't just come back to life, super serum or not."

Though Bucky's kinda starting to wonder now. Given how much he loves science and believes in modern technology, he might have to accept that anything is possible.

"Hmm," Steve hums. "So do you have Captain America underwear, too?"

"Not since I was eight." Bucky coughs. "I'll save all that for another impromptu surgery. It's bad enough that my family's nickname for me literally came from those damn comics."

"I don't remember a Bujames..."

"Call me that one more time and I'm gonna start putting these shards back in ya."

"Okay, okay," Steve says with a laugh, then winces. "Ahh. Sorry, James."

Bucky focuses on one last piece. "Bucky," he murmurs.

Steve smiles softly. "Like the bears."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Bucky was only in the comics ya know. He didn't have a teen sidekick and his best friend growing up was actually a guy named Artie," Steve says.

"Huh?" Bucky drops the last shard and flushes the wound again. His mind is blown at how this shit is practically healing before his eyes. "Whose best friend?"

Steve frowns. "Steve Rogers."

Steve. Steve Rogers? God, Bucky's really starting to lose it now. "I. I, uh," he trips over his words, then focuses on the task at hand again. Clean gloves. "I gotta pull your pants down."

When Steve's eyebrows shoot up, Bucky continues. "You need a Rocephin shot."

"Oh." Steve's face falls. "I was about to say, usually I require dinner first."

 _Lord_. "Yeah well, I'm pretty sure we jerked off together the other night, that puts us at least at the third date. They're coming off."

"Yes, sir."

It takes all of Bucky's willpower not to gawk and drool at Steve as he coaxes his pants to his knees. He's built like a brick shithouse. If science is responsible for this, then fuck yeah science. And he's not even going to linger on the boxer briefs and dick situation because then, well. He might fucking die.

Bucky wipes Steve's thigh with alcohol and injects him as quickly as possible, tugging his cargos back over his hips like he's dressing a baby. He pulls his gloves off with a snap. "Good news. You'll live. Bad news, I think your friend Sam is gonna be pissed as hell at you for getting shot."

"No question about that." Latching on to Bucky's hand - _left_ hand, what - Steve pulls himself to a sitting position and actually lets Bucky help him to his feet. "Thank you, Bucky. James? Whatever you go by."

"Bujames is fine."

"I knew you liked that, saw you try not to smile when I said it."

Shut up, did not, Bucky thinks. He helps walk Steve the short distance to his apartment. The idiot didn't even lock the door, what the hell is wrong with this guy? "I'll check on you after work tomorrow. Try not to get shot or stabbed in the next twenty-four hours, okay? I'd hate to have to threaten you with a lamp in my underwear again."

"You threatening me with a lamp in your underwear was basically the highlight of my year, but I'll be on good behavior."

Bucky blinks. That's it. That's all.

"G'night Bucky." Then Steve's closing the door in Bucky's shocked face, because he's just not good at this. Snark he can do all day but that was genuine, maybe? Or sarcasm? Fuck.

"Goodnight...Steve."

 **vi.** ****

***any chance the nomad could be captain america?***

The screen of his phone comes in and out of focus as Bucky types his text to Claire on the subway. The sixth day is always the worst, even without bleeding vigilantes showing up in the middle of the night.

 ***new phone who dis*** **  
**  
Bucky groans at the return text, but Claire quickly writes again.

 ***jk*** **  
*****its too early for this shit*** **  
*****captain america is active again btw*** **  
****  
**Bucky falls asleep for ten seconds before jerking awake.

 ***my new neighbor is the nomad*** **  
**  
Claire writes back immediately.

 ***mazel tov*** **  
**

Bucky's ridiculous, he knows this, he accepts it. All he's doing is walking next door to check on the health of his neighbor, but he feels compelled to put on a nicer shirt than the one he wore to and from work today. Blue, because it makes his eyes brighter than usual. His jeans are already good, very good, because his ass and thighs are good, very good, and he always buys to show his assets off.

His hair, though, is stupid long. On days when he's feeling particularly honest with himself, he acknowledges that he wears his hair at his shoulders because it requires less maintenance. Fewer haircuts means fewer appointments he has to be at when he wants to do nothing but lock himself in his apartment.

 _Today_ that decision sucks. He brushes it out but can't smooth the wave from where he wore it pulled back at work. And he doesn't want to pull it back up because his head needs a damn break. Feels like something trying to suck his brain out through his hair follicles. Fuck it. Let it be weirdly wavy. He's ridiculous.

Sam's voice carries into the hall, yelling at Steve, and Bucky feels a sense of validation. He knocks on the door and Sam opens it straight away, his surly irritation evident on his face until he recognizes Bucky. "Bujames!"

"Hey, Sam." Bucky steps inside Steve's home, wringing his hands together. It's a very sterile looking space, like he didn't bring much with him when he moved in. "You're yelling at him. That's good, means I don't have to."

"You should still yell at him," Sam says. He openly glares at Steve.

"Really feeling the love, guys," Steve laments from the couch. At least he's resting.

Sam ignores him, speaking directly to Bucky. "Wound looks good, he'll be like new by tomorrow. Whether that's a good thing or not is still debatable."

"Again. The love."

Bucky cocks his head. "Are you in the medical field?"

"Was," Sam answers. "Air Force pararescue, 58th Squadron. Retired."

"Nice." Bucky grins. He stares at Sam for a minute, nodding his head as his brain tries to work. Duh. He snaps his fingers excitedly. "You're the Falcon!"

Holy fucking shit, why are all of these superheroes invading his life?

Sam crosses his arms - whoa, his _arms_ \- over his chest. Bucky can see Steve out of the corner of his eye, mimicking Sam's movements. Exactly. They both tilt their head, throw out a shy smile, and say, "Among other things, yeah."

This must happen a lot.

"Anyway. Some of us have legitimate work to do." Rolling his eyes, Sam grabs his jacket and ball-cap from the small dining table. Bucky's admiring the intense military style jacket - not hipster looking at all on Sam's broad figure - when Sam pulls a goddamn motherfucking shield with a star painted on it from under the table and slings it over his back, hooking it into a clip on his jacket. "Thanks for patching him up, James. Hopefully this won't become a regular occurrence."

"Guh," Bucky says.

"Costume party," Steve says.

Sam winks. "Yeah, costume party. You think I'd be caught in star-spangled tights? Please."

No way, Bucky thinks. No fucking way.

Sam lets himself out and Bucky's still a little off his game. He wants to ask Steve, _hey, are you by chance a one hundred year old World War II vet_? But if he is, what would Bucky do with that information? Probably treat Steve like a national icon. Certainly not yell at him in his underwear or fantasize about hate-fucking him. So he lets the weirdness slide again.

"Can I check you for myself?" Bucky asks. Non-personal question. Relevant to his purpose in being here.

"Of course." Steve stands up and pulls the hem of his tee shirt above his abdomen. While it's obvious he's been injured recently, it looks nothing like a gunshot wound.

Bucky kneels to get a good look at his own handiwork, bracing himself with his hands on Steve's waist. Maybe too good of a look, actually. Steve's muscles flutter visibly under his fingertips, skin soft and pink like he's brand fucking new. He looks good, he's healing freakishly fast, and Bucky's parched all of a sudden. His cheeks flush. He licks his lips. He needs to get off his knees before he starts drooling with want.

"Look good?" Steve asks.

Bucky looks up, God, _why does he look up_ , it only makes it worse!

"Great," he answers, scrambling back to his feet. "How the hell, I dunno, but yeah. You're good."

Steve smiles. "I used to live next door to a nurse. She couldn't have done what you did, though."

Bucky doesn't know how to take that. "Well, there's so many levels of nursing-"

He's interrupted by Steve's giant hands on his shoulders. "It was a compliment. Take it."

"Okay. Thank you." Bucky nods. Hmm, Steve's eyes are pretty. He really doesn't hate his neighbor anymore. The hate-fuck fantasy is quickly being replaced.

Fucking shit in hell. 

**vii.** **  
**

Something about Bucky attracts fake lumberjacks.

That's what he calls the guys that usually end up hitting on him in bars. And coffee shops. And oddly enough, at work. Like _seriously_ , your loved one is in the surgical intensive care unit, you need to sit your ass down and think about priorities. Maybe these guys, with their fitted flannel shirts and impeccably clean boots, think he's being just as ironic as they are with his man bun, ripped skinny jeans, and stretched out sweaters.

Bucky's not ironic. He just usually doesn't give a fuck.

This particular fake lumberjack is talking a lot and Bucky's not listening for real. Local brew blah blah Williamsburg is so lit yadda yadda _Brooklyn_. He's probably actually from fucking Jersey.

For some reason, even though all he wants to do is sleep, Bucky allowed himself to get talked into going out for drinks with a few co-workers after their shift. Probably because if he goes home, he'll know that Steve is on the other side of his walls. Steve, with his super hearing and healing and muscles and probably dick, if Bucky wants to let his brain fall down that rabbit hole.

"Ugh," Bucky says, gulping down the remainder of his third beer. A local brew, of course. The shots before that were local, too. Well, to Mexico. "I should head out," he slurs to Bush. Or Tree. Whatever this guy's name is.

He's disappointed. So sad. "Can I give you my number?"

"Sure." Bucky unlocks his phone and slides it across the table.

 _Leif_. The guy's name is Leif.

Bucky opts to walk home, to burn off those beers and breathe in the crisp autumn air before it turns so cold that it gives him just one more thing to complain about. He's too young to be this bitter, he knows this, and yet. He is what he is.

Typically he walks with his head down and hands in his pockets, minding his own business like a good New Yorker. But tonight he's not as steady on his feet, having to focus too much on his movements to keep his eyes on the road ahead. He's at least three quarters of the way home when the road ahead sort of stops. Mostly because there's a big ass dude blocking his way.

Bucky clears his throat. "Excuse me."

Big ass dude looks down at him. "Take a detour."

God, he's just not in the mood. "Look, I don't give a shit what you're doing, I'm just minding my business, trying to go home. Now, if you don't mind."

As Bucky steps around Big-Tall-and-Ugly, a greasy hand grabs onto his right bicep. Just as quickly Bucky snatches the guy's wrist with his left hand, wrenching it away and squeezing threateningly. "It's been a long fucking week, man. Please don't touch me."

The please is probably what sets the jerk off, because assholes don't usually respond well to politeness. Luckily, or not, being out and proud since young adulthood has prepared Bucky to take a mean punch. He doesn't even fall to the ground. Big Ugly definitely isn't expecting Bucky to stand right back in his face and connect a metal fist to his jaw in retaliation. Maybe it's the buzz, maybe it's the shit-ass week, but whatever. Bucky enjoys watching that big tree fall hard against the pavement.

Then he's in the air, held up by his jacket like a puppy being carried by his scruff. Bucky starts swinging and kicking but the giant just chuckles. "Seriously? Stop. We gotta get outta here."

Of fucking course. "M'not some damsel in distress. I had that guy."

"I know you did." Steve - Nomad, whoever - drops him and pushes him in the direction of their apartment building. "But what about the four guys he was on overwatch for?"

Bucky looks around in a panic. "Where are they?"

"In a dumpster." Steve shrugs. His hand is still on Bucky's back. "For now."

"Shit," Bucky says, walking a little faster. He kinda wants to puke but hopefully he can hold it in until he gets home.

"Brooklyn Heights ain't what it used to be, pal."

Yeah, he's got that right. "Uh, thanks. I guess. Even though I don't think I cleared you for superhero duty."

Steve smiles at him. "Never was very good at following orders."

"Yeah?" Bucky gulps. "Were you in the military?"

"Army."

Yep. "What brings you to Brooklyn?"

"Grew up here." Steve looks at the sky. "Home is home, ya know?"

That's two. "You get in a lotta fights as a kid?" Bucky asks.

Steve laughs. "Just about every day, yeah."

Too dumb not to run away from a fight. Sounds about right. It's official. Bucky has a crush on an extremely attractive senior citizen. Also, science is awesome. He sways into the wall by the front door of their building but Steve rights him again. "Sorry. Might've had a little to drink tonight."

"I'm sensing a pattern here," Steve says, ushering Bucky inside.

"Which one?" Bucky asks. "The terrible life choices? Or how every day is utter shit since you came into my life?"

"Oh." Well, Steve was smiling before that. His face visibly falls but he recovers quickly. "I was gonna say the correlation between alcohol and picking fights with people bigger than you."

"Yeah, that, too. I'm officially quitting tequila. Again. But I mean it this time," Bucky says, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't seem to work. "Hey, look, I only half meant what I said."

Steve walks quietly up the stairs to their floor and to the end of the hall, finally turning to give Bucky a look that says "go on."

Bucky sighs. He doesn't want to word vomit. "I like to criticize my life choices because I can. They're mine. I _choose_ to work torturous hours at a hospital all the way in west Manhattan. I _choose_ to limit my social life because being around healthy, normal people can be exhausting. And I'm probably going to choose to waste my week off by sleeping and being completely unproductive."

Steve opens his mouth but Bucky stops him. "Wait."

"Okay."

"I didn't choose to lose my arm. I didn't choose to be gay, which I am, by the way. And I didn't choose to have a fucking superhero move in next door to me." Bucky sucks in a deep breath. "That being said, I wouldn't change any of those things. I'm really fucking good at complaining, but I need to face circumstances beyond my control from time to time."

Steve nods. "I understand. Believe it or not."

"Great." Bucky fumbles for his keys. "Go. Save Brooklyn. Just try not to get yourself killed doing it, idiot."

"I knew you cared." Steve salutes and jogs back to the stairwell.

"I just don't wanna break in a new neighbor!" Bucky yells down the hall.

Now that. _That_ is the biggest lie he's ever told in his life. 

**viii.** **  
**

Bucky sleeps.

Bucky raids his fridge.

Bucky sleeps again.

Ah, yes. Good. 

**ix.** **  
**

_Knock knock knock._ _  
_  
Bucky looks around his apartment, pursing his lips. It's the middle of the day. He didn't order anything from Amazon, at least, not that he can remember. And recent history has shown that he only gets visitors when he's attempting to sleep.

Interesting.

He doesn't bother with the peephole, swinging the door open like it's 1955 suburban America, complete with a dramatic twirl of his hips. The effect is somewhat lost without a poodle skirt. His visitor appears startled, most likely because he's never seen Bucky fully rested before.

Bucky's a little startled, too. Mostly because it's Steve, and he's lacking any visible wounds and his usual black attire. Blue...blue is an excellent color on him. "Hey..." Bucky says, lilting the greeting into a question.

Steve grins. "Hi. I'm your new neighbor and I don't think we've been properly introduced. Steve Rogers," he says, and extends his hand over the threshold into Bucky's apartment.

Fix your face, Bucky thinks. Don't let him know you're internally yelling _what the fuck._ He grasps Steve's hand and shakes it. "Um. James Barnes. Some people call me Bucky."

Steve's hand stills. "You're serious? Bucky Barnes. That's actually your name?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Bucky says, shaking his head. "Hey, you look familiar. Have you saved my life before?"

"Yeah," Steve answers softly. He withdraws his hand. "Twice."

Okay. Bucky exhales shakily. _Okay_. "Wow. Either I'm accident prone or you're some sort of hero."

"Probably a little of both," Steve jokes. Puffing his chest out, he claps his hands together. "You're wondering why I'm here, I guess."

"Eh, little bit."

Steve picks up a white paper sack from the floor in front of his apartment. "Giving you a choice."

Bucky frowns. "Between?"

"How you spend your week off," Steve says. "You could sleep all day and enjoy your privacy. And judging by your media center, probably watch a lot of TV and play some first-person shooter games with strangers online."

Dammit, Steve already knows him way too well. "Or?"

"Or," he holds up the greasy sack, "your new neighbor has cheeseburgers for lunch. You could invite him in, eat, get to know each other a little better. Maybe even become friends that _aren't_ creepy and jerk off together instead of listening to each other do it through our freakishly thin walls."

Bucky drops his head, hoping his hair will hide his blush. But still, what is he, crazy? This is the easiest fucking choice of his life. He tucks his hair behind his ears and steps aside to let Steve in, his stomach growling as he eyes the bag of food. "Hey, those aren't from that new Outback, are they?"

Steve scoffs. "What am I, new here?" 

**xv.** **  
**

Bucky calls in sick to work for the first time in six years. He's come down with something rough, just can't seem to drag himself out of bed.

Well. It's not a _total_ lie.


End file.
